Autumn Rain
by Hanyoukai
Summary: One-shot. At the end of the road, there's always someone waiting. [Sango x Takeda]


**Autumn Rain**

_By Hanyoukai_

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Genre: General/Romance   
Pairing: Sango/Takeda   
Rating: PG-13   
Summary: At the end of the road, there's always someone waiting. 

**Disclaimer**: I wish I owned the rain. Except that it got my macroeconomics textbook all soggy. Gurr. 

**Author's Notes**: Indeed, this fanfic was inspired by the episode, _Only you, Sango_. Takeda had such superbly shiny teeth. 

Dedicated to Victor, for being so supportive!

Wrote this while listening to Harmonia, the second ending song, I believe, of Naruto. 

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_"Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer. Terror is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the secret cause."_

James Joyce, _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_

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_I waited six years for you, Sango. It matters little how many more I wait for your return..._

Takeda awoke to the muted sound of rain. 

The room was still dark, lank shadows roaming the pale, quiet walls and gliding across his bleary vision, their dim effervescence rustling languidly as if daring the sun to rise. 

It didn't. And taunted by the darkness, his benumbed soul fluttered futilely in its icy bath, so that there was no more warmth and glow. For only the incessant shriek of the wind and the dull ache in his chest stayed to enfold him. 

With each day that slipped by, Takeda wondered when living had become a duty. Yet the elusive answer was already lying in his core; he was just too afraid of reawakening a remote pain and loneliness. 

A stark weariness passed over his body and gradually settled, stabilized. His tongue felt heavy, and laced with a deep metallic taste. 

The thin shoji screen trembled eerily in his mind, and he shifted slightly to rest on his side on the scented futon, turning away from the phantoms that crept within the inky gloom. 

And the soft, rhythmic splatter of falling water against the clay roof above his bedroom soon lulled him back into a fitful sleep. Dawn would not arrive that day. 

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He kneeled against a plainly embroidered cushion behind the low, mahogany writing table, trying to scan the neatly printed kanji on the scrolls, of which there seemed to exist heaps and piles. Yet, the cloud of characters, arranged in multitudes of rows upon columns, began to blur chaotically beneath his gaze, dispersing aimlessly like droplets of dew from the branches of a swaying willow. 

Outside, the rain continued to fall, and Takeda could almost breathe the heady fragrance of dying chrysanthemums wafting in from through the closed window. 

He felt something intangible billowing in the cool, morning air. 

A silent maid placed a polished tea set before him, bowing gracefully after being dismissed, her sandaled feet renewing their muffled shuffling across the tatami-covered floors. The screen door slid open and then closed almost noiselessly. 

Taking a sip from the porcelain cup of green tea, Takeda returned his gaze to the opaque rice paper stretched across the wooden windowpanes, almost as if he could see through them into the drowning gardens. 

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His footsteps quickened until he was practically running down the length of the courtyard toward the entrance in the outer castle walls. 

There was something in the air. Never before had the wind murmured so hypnotically, and the raindrops swirled in such a fruitful manner. Takeda's heart pumped furiously in his breast, his rapid breaths bursting in smoky wisps as they came into contact with the autumn draft. 

The stately, dark brown doors swung open so readily before him that Takeda almost missed the presence of the two guards at each side, their cone-shaped straw hats slick with rain. 

A sudden flash of indigo light. _One...two...three...four...five..._ He counted absently in his head. Then the earth and skies crashed blindly, darkly, causing the muddy ground to shiver and grate in convoluted bursts. 

Beyond the stone steps, the dense mists parted to reveal a small figure cloaked in haze. 

Surprised, his grasp loosened around the bamboo handle of his umbrella, and it fell with a liquid-like trickle to the ground, landing at his feet with a short spatter. The fierce winds dragged it away, down the road to tangle with the surrounding trees. 

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_Sango._

The unmistakable outline of hiraikotsu shimmered against the split of lightning, and he watched her run and slip and stumble along the narrow pathway, her burning presence looming ever closer and closer. 

In the darkness, their eyes met in silence. 

Her raven bangs trembled in the wind like wings, settled loosely in front of her tear-streaked gaze. Bottom lip quivering against a withering regret, Sango waived, and Takeda could only watch numbly as she crossed the short distance between them, desperately throwing her fatigued arms around his waist. 

His arms lifted to wrap around her shaking shoulders, trying hopelessly to absorb some of her anguish and loss. Strong hands tangled in her long, wet hair, as she sobbed into his damp haori, and he rested his chin on top of hers, gently inhaling his own remorse. 

She smelled of sadness and storms and long-ago wounds. 

He realized then that her journey was over, that she was finished with revenge and sorrow and desperate fights. And at the very end, she had chosen him. 

But then, choices often become meager and hollow when there was nobody else remaining after the final battle. Nobody except him and his paltry offering of love and wealth. He knew this and despised himself a little more. 

No words passed between them and the dank shadows deepened within the bitter abyss of his soul. 

But Takeda could wait. 

"You're home," he finally whispered against her temple. He brushed his thumbs patiently across her weathered cheeks, and embraced her a little tighter, muffling the sharp echoes of her weeping. 

He closed his eyes from the glare of the raw, ashen sky, and let the cold, autumn rain course away his own grief. 

The heavens poured and poured still, until finally a waning twilight peeked forth through a rift in the skies. 

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**End.**

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A.N.: Thought the word "umbrella" didn't fit very well. Still, writing "wagasa" would have been even more awkward. Actually, I don't think wagasa were made until the 18th century in Japan. But they looked really shiny and made my scalp tingle. 

Thank you for reading, and please review! 


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